


to the pain

by girlguidejones



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Halloween, M/M, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-24 16:58:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girlguidejones/pseuds/girlguidejones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pack has defeated the Nogitsune, but the monster left its scars on Stiles.  Scott thinks a Halloween celebration is just what everyone needs to relax, but when an unexpected party-goer drags Stiles into a downward spiral, will Derek be able to pull him out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the pain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElleCC](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/gifts).



> Written for ElleCC, for the TW Fall Harvest 2014. I chose the following elements from her wishlist: "Stiles dealing with post-nogitsune trauma in some sort of realistic way, panic attacks, everyone's alive (especially Allison), Stiles and Derek snarking at each other, Scott and Stiles as BFFs, canon-divergent AU, Sterek." This slightly-AU story diverges from post-3B canon, in that Erica, Boyd, Jackson, and Allison are all present, and the twins and Yukimuras are not. The timeline is slightly altered in that the Nogitsune is defeated prior to Halloween, rather than after.

The pack will arrive at any minute, the sheriff and Melissa first, Derek's guessing, so they can put in an appearance and make an early exit. Halloween is a turmoil-magnet for teenagers everywhere, the Beacon Hills factor notwithstanding, and both of them have to work the overnight shift. Derek is meeting the sheriff in the wee hours, after the pack goes home. Hopefully it'll just be to keep him company, but if All Hallows' Eve brings anything more sinister than jack-o-lantern smashing he'd rather the sheriff didn't have to face it alone.

Derek casts his gaze around the loft one last time. Faux cobwebs? Check. Eerie candlelight? Also check. Black cloths drape the walls, held in place with disembodied skeletal fingers, with green-eyed bats peering from between their folds. Huge swathes of gauzy, mossy, rag-like material shape one entire corner, where swampy-looking weeds in pots with glowing, green-lit water lurk. Just the hands of a Black-Lagoonish creature are visible, rising out of the edges of a carefully disguised kiddie-pool, painted black and filled with more eerily green, brackish water. 

Inhaling deeply, Derek turns to the kitchen, giving the hot, mulled cider a stir before lowering the heat. He throws in a couple more cinnamon sticks—the sheriff likes it extra spicy.

Derek's got preferred snacks for everyone- caramel apples for Allison and Erica, kettle corn for Melissa, pumpkin muffins for Isaac, and half-a-dozen things dusted with fake orange cheese for Scott and Boyd. Lydia's favorite—expensive handmade marshmallows—are hidden away in a cupboard beside the crock-pot filled with hot chocolate. Nearby sits a decoy dish of standard mini-marshmallows. If he leaves the fancy, square-cut ones on the counter they'll be gone by the time she arrives, fashionably late as per her usual.

There's a separate, smaller bowl of candy corn beside the other snacks. Stiles is the only one who likes it. Derek had hesitated when shopping for it; there was a display of "gourmet, all-natural handmade" candy corn beside Lydia's special marshmallows, and it actually looked edible, which is a first as far as Derek's concerned. But knowing Stiles, if it didn't taste like corn syrup and waxy chemicals he wouldn't eat it. He stuck with the cellophane bag of cheap stuff for $1.29.

He's not sure how much of it is the Alpha charisma, and how much of it is just Scott McCall himself, but when Scott unsubtly mentioned how great the loft would look decorated for Halloween, Derek found himself flushing and offering to host the pack party embarrassingly quickly. Remembering Scott's beaming smile and the firm hand-clasp of gratitude on Derek's shoulder warms Derek inside. He's still not sure that Scott is or will ever be _his_ Alpha, but the earnest tug in his belly to please _an_ Alpha is distantly familiar. It's nice to feel it again.

Derek senses Melissa and John, and a few moments later meets them at the door.

"I don't think I'll ever get used to that, son, no matter how often it happens," John says when the door opens before they can knock. Derek flushes at being called _son_ , and it deepens when Melissa kisses his cheek as she sweeps in. He's not sure he'll ever get used to either of those things himself.

"It—er—when we were growing up, I mean, in the pack, it was considered rude to keep people waiting for the door to be answered if you know they're there," Derek answers, shaking the sheriff's outstretched hand. "It was only for visitors you didn't want—a snub, or a power play."

"Well, I'm glad to know we're neither of those kinds of visitors," Melissa interjects. "Derek, honey this looks fantastic! You did all of this by yourself?" She doesn't wait for an answer but sets the dish of what smells (Derek hopes) like chicken enchiladas on the counter before wandering around. "You put so much work into this! Scott and the pack will do the clean up," she says decisively.

"If you say so," he answers, snorting softly. "The Alpha of the Alpha is always his or her mother," Derek grins as she winks at him. He remembers Grandma Hale getting her way with his mother more than once when he was growing up. 

"Stiles is going to love this," John calls out. He's made his way over to the swamp and is nodding approvingly, his investigative side showing as he pokes around trying to find the source of the water noises. "The Swamp Thing and The Creature from the Black Lagoon are his favorites."

"Really?" Derek clears his throat, resolutely ignoring the glance that Melissa and John exchange. "I didn't realize," he says, but the way he croaks the answer seems pretty transparent even to him.

His former betas crash in at that moment, sparing him from further awkwardness. Erica is riding piggyback on Boyd's back. They're dressed as the Gargantuan zombie pair from Plants vs. Zombies. Isaac is a Wall-Nut. It makes Derek happy, to see that despite the Scott-Allison-Isaac thing that no one talks about, that his original trio still has their own bond. 

"Derek!" Erica launches herself straight from Boyd's back into Derek's arms, a feat impossible to achieve without grave injury if all three of them weren't werewolves. "It looks so awesome! Thank you papa-wolf!" She smacks a kiss on his cheek before zooming away, blonde curls flying everywhere.

"Yeah, man, this really _is_ great," Boyd adds, Isaac nodding beside him. He doesn't really have a neck in his costume, so the effect is like seeing a rock suddenly grow a dent in itself.

"Stiles is going to flip over the swamp!" dent-neck Isaac says.

"There's, uh, food on the counter," Derek mumbles, in the most inept segue ever. Isaac finds the muffins immediately, but Boyd stays behind, giving Derek the pitying look that guys give guys in this situation. It's _Boyd_ , so at least he's silent about it. 

"You made sure, right, about the costumes?" Derek asks. "You checked with everyone?" There's vampire-, swamp thing-, and Frankenstein-themed corners in the loft, and of course they have their own werewolves. The Egyptian tomb display is deliberately absent from the classic monster panorama.

"Yeah, man. Everybody's on board, no worries. Most of them pretty much knew better anyway, and Lydia's got Jackson on as tight of a leash as ever." Derek usually finds dog jokes annoying, but it's Jackson, so he feels no real urge to protest. He rolls some of the tension from his shoulders only to feel it flood back in when he senses Stiles, Scott, and Allison arriving downstairs.

Allison is the one who dealt the killing blow with her specially-etched arrows, but she paid a heavy price. She's still in a wheelchair from her encounter with the Oni, but it's temporary, and knowing Allison, she'll be out of it long before doctors' orders. Derek's watched her in it, saw the way she's moved her legs and flexed her ankles, and he suspects she's already been out of it and testing her strength. He doesn't think Scott knows. Gaining instant Alpha powers doesn't make up for a lifetime of watching how bodies heal. When he opens the door Derek suspects Scott and Stiles of cooking up this costume idea as a way to get her to stay in the chair .

"Hey Derek!" Scott enters, pushing Allison in front of him. She's clearly Professor X, in a navy suit and with her wheels modified by strategically placed aluminum foil. "The place looks great!" Scott is Nightcrawler, his long blue tail curved around to rest in Allison's lap. Derek leans down to drop a quick kiss on Allison's cheek. 

"Professor X, you look much prettier with hair," he smiles, and Allison dimples at him.

"Dude! Where's your costume?" Cyclops-Stiles complains. What looks like a scuba-mask has had its lens covered in red cellophane, and currently rests on Stiles' forehead. Derek is resolutely not looking at the rest of Stiles, encased in a bodysuit and what looks like gold-spray-painted horse's reins. Okay, so maybe he looked a little.

"I'm wearing it," Derek says, arms wide as he stands in a t-shirt and jeans. Stiles peers at him and he feels the curious stares of everyone else before Stiles bursts out laughing as he gets it. Everyone else is still staring, and Derek likes it (a lot, he likes it a lot) that Stiles is the first one to figure it out.

"Guys! Look at him!" Stiles gesticulates. "Don't you get it? Nobody?" 

Stiles manhandles Derek into turning around to face the rest of the room, but gets only shrugs in return. He finally tugs emphatically on the hem of Derek's shirt, which is closer to some of Derek's daydreams than he likes to admit.

"His shirt? Anyone? Bueller? Buellllller?" Stiles gives up, huffing an exasperated sigh. "An American Werewolf in London!" he exclaims, poking a long finger into Derek's chest. "Get it? The Union Jack? National flag of the UK? Buckingham Palace? Double-decker bus?" Derek hadn't planned on dressing up at all, but he'd stumbled across the tacky novelty t-shirt at Goodwill when he was scouring for things to decorate the loft. One man's shabby, discarded tourist apparel is another man's extremely subtle Halloween costume.

Everyone is smiling and nodding now, probably more at Stiles' enthusiastic appreciation than at Derek's low-rent costuming, but whatever.

"He—you—a werewolf, from America—inside this shirt. The shirt of London. It's genius!" He's got one arm wrapped around Derek's shoulders, and the other is patting Derek's belly in approval. Derek swallows.

"I think we get it now, son," the sheriff says dryly.

"I was just wondering when you went to London," Isaac pipes up. Boyd flicks his ear, and that breaks the spell. The earlier arrivals start moving toward the food, while Scott, Stiles and Allison go to look at the decorations. Derek—Derek with Stiles' hands on him—is no longer the center of attention.

Jackson and Lydia arrive just then, in the guise of Mulder and Scully, complete with bland suits and uncomfortably-real-looking FBI badges. Lydia, of course, takes one look at Derek and gets it immediately. She's Lydia, after all.

"Cute," she says, with a little smile. Jackson's just alternating stares between Scott and Derek, looking completely at a loss, obviously not processing the shift in power between what he remembers and what he now senses.

"Lydia told me, but, um, wow," he says, as Scott moves over to Derek's side. "It's a lot to take in."

"Try not to think about it too much," Derek advises, and Scott nods, squeezing Derek's shoulder.

"Yeah, we don't," Scott chimes in. It's moments like these, where Scott asserts leadership without having to stomp on someone else to do it, that settle Derek. He'll never regret saving Cora, but he's equally relieved that someone as incorruptible as Scott is now the resident Alpha.

An excited squeal from the far corner of the loft breaks the tension, and everyone gravitates in that direction. 

Stiles has found the swamp.

"I can't believe it! You have a Black Lagoon! With icky water and fog and everything." Stiles exclaims. "The Swamp Thing, the Creature…they're my favorites!"

Derek can feel himself flushing, pleased with Stiles' reaction; he knows the low lighting will only hide that from the non-werewolves in the group. Scott catches his eye and smiles, his grin matching Allison's. At this point Derek's pretty sure that the only person still in the dark about his feelings for Stiles is Stiles himself. Maybe Jackson, if Lydia hasn't clued him in yet.

"You can't have classic monsters without Swamp Thing," Derek says, as Stiles continues to gush. Music suddenly comes to life, picking up where Derek shut if off yesterday in the middle of Vincent Price's Thriller monologue. Derek looks over to see Melissa with the stereo remote in her hand and a sympathetic look on her face.

"So, who wants enchiladas?" she calls, and creates a small stampede toward the kitchen. Allison and Erica drool over the caramel apples while Melissa dishes up her specialty.

"Only one, dad!" Stiles calls, still poking around the swamp. "Oh, god it's so cute!" It looks like he's found the tiny turtle Derek had placed in one of the small pools of water.

Derek nudges Lydia toward the hidden marshmallows when he sees her pouring a cup of cocoa, and is rewarded with a kiss to the cheek. He leaves the lipstick print be, just to annoy Jackson. It might not be all that visible, given his scruff and the Halloween-level-lighting, but he'll be able to smell it. That's enough.

"Oh my god!" Jackson exclaims, his head lifting and nose flaring. At first Derek thinks he's reacting to Lydia's kiss, but that's quickly dispelled. "Danny! It's Danny!" Derek senses a familiar heartbeat, and although he wouldn't have been able to place it if Jackson hadn't already said it, now it clicks.

Everyone present and of high-school age babbles all at once at Jackson's news; Danny just started a semester abroad as an exchange student and they hadn't expected to see him before Christmas. There's a collective rush for the door, Jackson and Stiles ending up in front. When Jackson throws it open, Stiles lets out a horrible, anguished cry. Danny's arrived in costume, like everyone else, and lurches into the loft with his best Bela Lugosi impression, clearly assuming Stiles' reaction is just him playing along. Danny's covered himself in dirty gray bandages and he moans as he grabs at Stiles, who's frozen in terror while everyone else looks on, horrified.

The smell of urine floods the room, and all hell breaks loose.

Jackson tries to push Danny—who has only now figured out that anything's really wrong—back out of the loft at the same time Isaac tackles Danny to the floor. The three of them end up in a flailing heap. Allison flings herself from her chair, trying to get between Stiles and what he obviously sees as the Nogitsune, but wasn't prepared to be standing and immediately goes down. Scott was rushing toward Stiles but is now stalled by Allison on the floor in front of him, gasping in pain. 

"Boyd!" Derek cries from the other side of the room. Boyd is closest to Stiles, and already moving toward him, but Stiles is too far into his own nightmare, When Boyd tries to pull him to safety, Stiles takes a desperate swing. There's a grunt and an audible _crack_ as Boyd's nose breaks and the smell of blood mixes with the sour scent of Stiles' piss. 

Isaac and Jackson are literally sitting on Danny now, while Erica slashes the bandages of his mummy costume away with her claws, being none to careful about it. Derek smells more blood now, and knows it's Danny's.

Lydia looks like she might start shrieking at any moment. At this rate Derek doesn't know if it'll be banshee screams or just Lydia-screams, but he's not waiting around to find out. He flings himself onto the sofa, spring-boarding off it and completely over the sheriff and Melissa, who are also struggling through the melee toward Stiles. He can hear the erratic, terrified heartbeat coming from Stiles' chest, and it twists something in his own. Just as Derek's about to reach Stiles, Scott roars, the sheer, overwhelming decibels thudding through the room, bringing everyone to a standstill.

Derek hears Stiles' heart stutter—once, then again—before resetting itself, almost like Scott had used a defibrillator. For a split second, Derek thinks it's going to be okay, but everyone freezing in place gives Stiles the opening he's apparently waiting for, as his flight instinct kicks in and he bolts for the door. He's out and gone before anyone can stop him.

"Scott!" the sheriff shouts. "Can you hear him? Is he having a panic attack? Can he breathe?"

"He—he's okay right now," Scott says. The sheriff looks to Derek for confirmation. It makes the wolf in him want to puff up his chest with pride, to know that he, too, is trusted with Stiles' safety by Stiles' father. It's hard to hear anything; Jackson's got his arms around Danny's shoulders as Danny weeps quietly. Derek listens intently before nodding his agreement. "He's okay. For now. But we should go after him soon, before he runs into someone else dressed like a mummy."

"I didn't know!" Danny cries out, hoarse with shock. "Why didn't you tell me?" he says to Jackson, shoving at his chest from where they both are sprawled on the floor. "You said there would be classic monsters! That was the party theme!"

" _You_ said you weren't coming!" Jackson shoots back. 

"I wanted it to be a surprise!"

Scott flashes his eyes and growls threateningly. They both settle.

"It's no one's fault," Melissa says, but Derek aches with failure. He was so careful, did everything he thought he needed to, to keep Stiles safe.

"I'll pull the cruiser around," the sheriff says to Melissa, heading to the door. Scott immediately follows.

"I'm coming too," he says.

"And me!" Allison chimes in. Pale and clearly in pain, she nevertheless swings her wheelchair—to which Scott had safety returned her—toward the loft's open door.

"We can't _all_ go," Lydia says. "That's just going to make him worse." No one can disagree with that logic, and Scott steps quickly forward yet again. Derek stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

"Let me," he says quietly, but Scott immediately bristles.

"I'm his best friend!" he protests, eyes going red for the third time tonight, shaking Derek off.

"I'm his father," the sheriff says, clearly trumping everyone.

"And you nearly had a heart attack, and lost your job—again—from the chaos the Nogitsune caused," Derek replies steadily. "He tortured you," he says to Scott. "You're still in that chair, and he thinks it's his fault," to Allison. "The Nogitsune terrorized you at the hospital," he continues, looking at Melissa. "You—" he says to Lydia, "—were kidnapped." Everyone falls silent. 

"He's my responsibility," Scott says again, but it sounds more mournful than anything else, and his eyes are back to brown.

"I'm the only one here that he can look at right now and not feel paralyzed with guilt," Derek replies gently. "Part of being a good Alpha—and a good friend—is knowing when you're not the right person for the job. I was barely starting to figure that out before it suddenly didn't matter anymore." He hesitates before continuing. "Be better than me, Scott, okay? Be smarter. For Stiles' sake."

The loft is silent for a moment, the gurgling water of the swamp the only sound. Scott and the sheriff exchange a glance, before both nod slowly in acceptance.

Erica materializes at Derek's side, pushing a duffle into his hands.

"Go," the sheriff says, waving Derek toward the door.

"Take care of him," Scott urges.

Derek goes. 

It doesn't take him long to find Stiles. Derek could track Stiles' scent for miles, even in rain or snow—he knows it that well. But the additional, mineralized salt-tang of urine makes it even easier. He finds Stiles in a huge, defunct culvert that runs from an abandoned section of the city waterworks. He's sitting on an old tire, shivering in his thin, wet bodysuit as the autumn night wind whistles through.

"Go away," Stiles shouts at him, pitching a stone in his direction. "I don't need anyone babysitting me."

"Okay," Derek says agreeably, hands up. "If you get into some warm clothes I'd feel more inclined to do that." He holds out the bag. Stiles stares daggers at him and lets it hover. "If I go back without at least making sure you're warm your dad will shoot me." It's another long moment before he snatches it out of Derek's hands, glaring pointedly.

"You think I'm gonna run?" he sneers. "It's not like you couldn't catch me." Derek sighs and turns his back. After few moments he smells the non-smell of unscented baby wipes, realizing that Erica had thrown his emergency-quick-cleanup-regular-people-are-coming packet in the bag along with the change of clothes. He could hug her for that, if she were here. People can say what they want about Derek's poor decisions as an alpha (and they have), but he never bit anyone who was lacking in brains or plain old common sense. 

When the rustling stops he turns back, the sight of Stiles in layers of his clothing making him warmer inside than Stiles probably is.

"Better?" he asks softly.

"I don't deserve 'better'," Stiles answers even more softly. "We're all having parties, dressing up and eating candy corn, just like nobody's dead, or Allison isn't in a wheelchair."

"You know that's not true," Derek says, "but I know having another person tell you that isn't going to change your mind."

"So, why are you here?" Stiles asks, chewing at his thumb as he sinks back down onto the tire. "You can't make it different."

"Let's start small," Derek replies, and _that_ catches Stiles' attention.

"What do you mean?" Derek can smell blood now; Stiles has gnawed enough to rip a hangnail off, and is still chewing. He itches to grab Stiles' hands and hold them between his own to make it stop.

"Why do you think it was you?" Derek asks. Stiles gasps, the audacity of the question taking him by surprise. Everyone else has spent all their time trying to convince Stiles it meant nothing, that it was random chance, that it could have been anyone. But Derek knows better, and Stiles is too smart to believe that. "You know there had to be a reason," Derek continues, taking a seat across from him on a battered milk crate. Stiles scoffs.

"Because I'm the weakest, obviously," he says, eyes bright with guilty tears. "Everyone else is a supersomething: stronger physically, or smarter like Lydia and Allison. I was the logical target."

"Wrong," Derek says flatly. "Do you really think a thousand-year-old demon with an extremely high opinion of itself is going to demean itself by choosing the dullest knife in the drawer?" Stiles lifts his gaze from the debris in the culvert, his mouth falling open slightly. He'd obviously never thought of it that way. "It's going after the smartest, most dangerous target it can find. Victory over the weak doesn't satisfy its ego." 

Stiles mulls that over for a few moments before shrugging.

"Doesn't matter. Same result. People died, Derek. Because I didn't vomit him up in time, as soon as he first got me, like I should have."

"You're an idiot."

"You just said I was brilliant."

"Generally speaking, you are, but right now you're not."

"Oh, please, do continue proving my point. Really," Stiles sneers, "I'll wait."

"Did you miss the 'thousand years old' part of this story? Because I didn't," Derek argues. "The only reason that thing was able to control you is because it's got 983 extra years experience over you." He reaches out…carefully…slowly…so he doesn't frighten Stiles away, and pulls the hand that Stiles is chewing on away from his mouth. "I've got to tell you, Stiles, that if you lived another thousand years—as smart as you are now—you'd be the most terrifying thing to walk the earth."

"I really don't know how that's supposed to make me feel better about what happened," Stiles says. "Even if I accept your premise, that I wasn't the dullest crayon, that just boosts my ego. It doesn't change anything else."

"You're right. It doesn't _change_ anything, because the truth is already there, already a constant in this formula," Derek retorts, exasperated. "You can't blame yourself for being outsmarted by something with a thousand-year head start." He holds onto the hand, enclosing it softly in his own two.

"You don't get to feel guilty for not being born in 997 A.D." Derek leans back a little, not letting go but giving Stiles the space to not feel intruded upon. Neither of them say anything for a long while. Eventually Stiles starts to shiver more, now that the heat of his self-hatred is fading.

"C'mon," Derek says, tugging on Stiles' hand. "Let me take you home." 

"And ravish me?" Stiles says weakly, twisting his hand in Derek's grip so he can lace their fingers together. "That is why you're here, right, and not somebody else?"

"Yes, Stiles, that's it exactly," Derek rolls his eyes. "I presented my plan for jumping your bones and everyone signed off on it," he deadpans. "Your dad gave me a gold star." He tugs Stiles to his feet, and thank god, he doesn't resist.

"But, I'm not imagining it? I mean, c'mon, the Creature from the Black Lagoon? _Nobody_ would go through all of that just for broship. You have to be hot for this," he gestures clumsily at himself.

Derek laughs softly. "I was tired of being subtle, I guess," he shrugs. "I think everyone else figured it out first, then me, and finally you."

"Well, as exciting as it will be someday soon, I'm not sure I'm up for anything except maybe tomato soup and sleep. Can I get a ravishment rain check?"

"Why don't we start small instead, and work up to ravishment?" Derek smiles. "We can try co-parenting first." Stiles stares at him, his steps slowing until Derek nudges him to pick up the pace again.

"Excuse me? How is that small?" he sputters. "I think you just skipped at least, like, three relationship milestones there, dude."

"I need someone to help me take care of Donatello," Derek says, as Stiles continues to gape.

"You mean the teensy turtle? Are you for real? I just figured, you, um, rented him out by the hour. Like a pony."

"Yes, Stiles, didn't you know? Rent-A-Center has a whole section for exotic reptiles. You can rent-to-own baby turtles and komodo dragons." Stiles snorts. "You like Michelangelo better? I haven't turned in his birth certificate to Deaton yet. We can still change it."

"It has a birth certificate?"

"He, Stiles, not _it_ ," Derek says primly. Now that he's thinking of happier things, Stiles' scent is calmer, more green-smelling and fresh like his normal self.

"An American Werewolf in London. Swamp Thing. Donatello. I can't believe you were secretly this cool all along," Stiles laments. "I feel like I've been cheated out of years of, well, not thinking you were a _total_ drag."

"I feel so validated right now." He tugs on Stiles' hand, turning a corner onto the street heading back to the loft.

"Gonna validate you alright," Stiles mutters. "Soon as I'm feeling up to it, I'm gonna validate you like you would _not_ believe."

"You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means."

"Oh. My. God. The Princess Bride too?!" Stiles exclaims. "I hope you're serious about the us-thing, because I'm officially one-hundred-percent on board now. Full speed ahead!"

Derek stops walking, pulling Stiles in close, nice and slow, and gentle enough that he can get away if he wants. Stiles melts against him and Derek leans toward him in return. He doesn't put his arms around Stiles…doesn't capture or contain him. So close to his memories of the Nogitsune, he doesn't want Stiles to feel bound. He presses his lips to the delicate spot at Stiles' temple, where he can feel Stiles' pulse beat in the tiny blue vein that runs there.

"As you wish," Derek smiles. 

**Author's Note:**

> The title is, of course, another reference to The Princess Bride. When Westley is defining "to the pain" to Prince Humperdink, he says it means that "I leave you in anguish, wallowing in freakish misery forever"--which seems an accurate description of Stiles' post-nogitsune mind. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


End file.
